I don't go into the city as often as I used to. That's because these
days my life centers more and more in and around the farmlands of
the Napa Valley,
the
wine country
in California where I live. But every once in a while, there'll be
something I absolutely must go into the city to handle. And when there
is, there's a list I maintain of things to do there, none of which are
pressing enough to warrant the journey by themselves. Yet if I'm going
in anyway ie if I must go in anyway, I'll make good use of
my time. I'll clear my entire "to do in the city" list
while I'm there.

I'm
driving
home after one of these days. Everything's done. My entire "to do in
the city" list is cleared. I'm looking forward to being back home in
the
Cowboy Cottage.
I've got the radio on, enjoying the tunes, relaxing into the late
afternoon
drive.
I round a bend in the
road
... and there it is, directly in front of me: a veritable logjam of
cars, trucks, buses, and vans - hardly moving, barely creeping along,
effectively parked bumper to bumper on the
freeway,
going
nowhere.

There's
nothing
I can do except slow down and creep along with them. It goes like this
for about a half an hour, a couple of miles, and a few more bends until
the freeway is carried over the wide Petalumariver
by a trestle
bridge.
As we creep over the
bridge,
I peer down at what looks to be a far prettier sight than the one I'm
stuck in the middle of. The
river
looks much, much more inviting down there than the
logjammed
freeway
I'm on up here. At the first possible opportunity, I exit the
freeway
then double back until I'm under the
bridge,
and by the
river.

Up there on the
bridge,
I see the traffic moving along at a snail's pace. But down here there's
nothing,
no one, no commute noise,
peace
and
quiet,
just the
river
and its gentle sound of babbling
water.
There's no sense in leaving here (it's too smart not to) at least until
the traffic starts moving again. So I find a place to park, and start a
long, slow, meandering, ambling
walk
along the
river
bank until I come across a
rustic bench
made of tree logs, facing the
river.
I sit down on it, the
river
flowing mere inches from the heels of the boots on my outstretched
feet. I interlace my fingers, put my hands behind my head, and lean
back. A silent "Aaaaahhh!" escapes my lips all by itself.

I take in the easy scenery: fantastically colored ducks
swimming
in the reeds, frogs kicking around in the shallows, entire communities
of aquatic insects and newts capturing my
attention
until my
eyes
are drawn to and settle on the flowing
water
itself, now lit by and sparkling in the rays of the setting sun.

At first there's me, and then there's the flowing
river
- which is to say at first I'm aware of both ie I'm aware of both me
and of the flowing
river.
However as I sit here, there begins to be less of me and more of the
flowing
river,
and then there's less and less of me and more and more of the flowing
river,
until there's no me and all there is, is the flowing
river.
As I
watch
the flow, I seem to ... well (this is the only way I can say it
accurately) ... disappear. I disappear, and it's only the flow
which is
present.
Although I'm aware of the flow, I'm not aware of myself. I'm not in
this
picture
at all. There's only the flow.

It's a kind of altered state of awareness - not altogether unpleasant
... then again, it's not occurring in the domain in which I
ordinarily
register the unpleasantness / pleasantness spectrum. Briefly I have a
thought (which brings me back into the
picture)
"How can I be aware that there's only the flow not me, if I'm not
present
to experience it?". It's profundity strikes me deeply. That aside, this
is the way the experience I'm having, occurs for me: there's only the
flow; there's no me.

It's
empty.
It's
marvelous.
It's
empty and
marvelous.
It's profound
peace.
There's
nothing
going on at all anywhere in the universe except the flow. And it goes
on
inexorably
for what seems like forever. This is a way of being which is clearly
legitimate, which allows the flow to be the flow without interfering,
which allows the flow to be the flow without imposing my own judgement
and
opinion
on it, which allows the flow to be the flow without imposing my own
interpretivemachinery
on it.

It's a way of
watching
/ being which suddenly
interests
me enormously. I begin wondering whether or not it's valid to apply it
to all of life beyond merely this flow of this
particularriver
in this
particular
location. I realize I'm more than just
interested
in it: I'm veryinterested
in it. I'm mesmerized by it. At some level, this way of
watching,
this way of being, and whether or not it's possible to always maintain
this way of
watching
/ being, is the only thing that
interests
me, the only thing that's
interested
me like this for a long, long time. Indeed underneath it all, it may
even be the only thing I've ever been really
interested
in.

It's both
mystical
and
mysterious,
while at the same time it's a count-on-able metaphor for a great way to
live:
watching
the flow while not interfering with it - which is to say being with the
flow while not interfering with it. There's also a profound mutual
respect
which goeswith it (as
Alan Watts
may have said): my
respect
for the flow, the
inexorable
flow, and it's
respect
for
who I really am,
the space in which it shows up ie the space in which it shows up with
all its might, with all its majesty, with all it's profundity, with all
its
magnificence,
with all its such-ness, with all its thus-ness.

I become aware of a slight chill in the air. It jogs me out of my
reverie. For the first time in what seems like an eternity (although in
reality
it's probably been no more than about an hour) I turn away from the
river
and notice the sun is now below the horizon. Looking back up towards
the
bridge
I see the logjam has cleared, the traffic having thinned out
considerably and is now moving at an acceptable speed. If I could stay
here on this
rustic bench
by this
riverwatching
/ being with the flow forever, I would. But that's not
realistic.
I do have to leave - the coziness and warmth, the hospitality and
creative
energy of the
Cowboy Cottage
is calling for me.

I resolve to carry being aware of the flow with me wherever I go,
rather than have it be limited to only this
particularriver
in this
particular
location. I
stand
up, putting the palms of my hands together, bowing to the
river,
to the flow, whispering "Thank You!", then slowly begin
walking
back along the
river
bank in the gathering dusk to where my car's parked.